


Three Signs

by inkasrain



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkasrain/pseuds/inkasrain
Summary: Signs that choose Amaya, and a sign Amaya chooses.
Relationships: Amaya/Janai (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Three Signs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mementomoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mementomoe/gifts).



> Dear mementomoe,
> 
> Happy holidays!!! I hope you enjoy this Amaya-centric fic -- it was so much fun to write!
> 
> My very best wishes for a wonderful holiday season and excellent New Year,
> 
> Your fellow human/human friend/Yuletide author

Amaya sits on a rocky outcrop above a still-smoldering battlefield, settling darkness illuminated by dozens of stubborn little fires. The weight of the day is rolling toward her like a boulder, about to knock her flat; it always does after a battle. She’s given Gren command of her exhausted horse and the human forces, and retreated. He understands, as always.

Amaya breathes. Tugs off her torn gloves and battered gauntlets, unbuckles the soot-stained greeves around her legs, peels off the heavy pauldrons weighing on her shoulders. Amaya stretches her arms around her neck, fingers searching for the clasps that fasten her scored and battered breastplate... always hard to reach, those little buggers --

She stops, standing quickly when she sees a light wandering toward her. Amaya’s first wild thought is that one of the fires has evaded the smother and is about to set the whole field ablaze; rationality chases after, insisting that they’ve found Viren’s pathetic corpse, and have sent someone to tell her.

But the face gilded by the fire is not human -- and the horns certainly aren’t. 

Janai too has removed her armor. She is much smaller without it, like the metal was a shell guarding a slender flame. Her hair glints like fire itself in the flickering light; her eyes, somehow, burn.

Amaya’s mouth goes completely dry. Neither woman moves for a moment, and Amaya knows immediately that this is what her hearing friends refer to as an “awkward silence.”

Well, to hell with that. Amaya shrugs her shoulders at the elf, an obvious question.

Janai steps closer, angling the torch above her head. She gestures toward her lips, scarlet and full, and mouths, “Can you understand me?”

Amaya nods. Janai’s accent bends and folds her syllables into some slightly unfamiliar art, but for some reason, she profoundly enjoys decoding the elf’s words. Amaya moves her right hand gradually across her left: _Slowly_.

Janai swallows.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says. “For your bravery. In battle, and in rescuing me. In telling me things I did not want to hear. In…”

Janai’s face dips. Amaya can’t help herself -- she reaches out and cups Janai’s cheek. Her skin is warm as a banked fire, and Amaya isn’t sure if she’s imagining it, or Janai’s face is glowing softly beneath her palm.

“When my sister… I thought all was lost.” She’s speaking more quietly now, Amaya can tell as the words hum against her hand, but nothing in the world could make her look away from that beautiful mouth.

“But you were there,” Janai says, looking up. “Pulling me forward, to the next step, the next light. It was like nothing could stop you… so nothing could stop me. Thank you.” 

There is no air in these last words, they are just movement and shape and feeling, those same forces that animate Amaya’s language. She nods, deeply, hoping she can invest the pounding of her heart into the motion.

Amaya steps back, hand falling from Janai’s cheek. Her palm still tingles with the elf’s incredible warmth; her exhaustion has evaporated like steam. She sits on the outcrop, gesturing, and Janai sits beside her, propping the torch on the stone. Again there is what Amaya knows to be silence; but this time, she suspects it is companionable.

Amaya reaches again for the clasps of her breastplate, but suddenly warm fingers get in the way. Janai snaps the buckles and Amaya breathes a sigh of relief, feeling her ribs expand, the cool night air nipping beneath her shirt to her skin. “Thank you,” she signs. 

Janai repeats her, echoing the words. “Can you teach me more of your language?” she asks. “I’m not skilled at linguistics, but I would like to learn.”

Amaya nods, thinking. She places her thumb on her right temple and quirks down her fore and index fingers, then mimes riding a horse; Janai repeats the motion, though it leaves her with only one finger unoccupied. 

“Horse,” Janai says. 

* * *

_“The sign for "horse" is made by forming the letter "u" (or "h") with your right hand. Place your thumb on your right temple, or a little higher. Bend and unbend your first two fingers a couple times.” - Lifepoint.com/asl101_

Amaya’s first horse had chosen her, she always said.

She had been all of five years old -- young for a full grown horse, Amaya would now admit -- and her mother was hesitant to allow her near the sprawling paddock. Amaya went anyway, following Sarai, who could already canter happily across the thick grass. Amaya loved to watch her, echoes of hooves thudding up through her small feet, reverberating in her knees and her teeth. 

Sarai looked light as air on horseback, like she was a girl from a cloud who could float away at any moment. Amaya watched her smile, her mouth peel open with laughter, and the horse’s eyes shine with something like the same, a sound that Amaya had no name for.

“No,” her mother signed firmly. “No horse.” Her fingers snapped down to her palm, forcefully, meaning it this time. “You are too small.” 

Sarai, the guardian sister she was born to be, took the edict seriously -- though she did let Amaya watch her from just outside the paddock, little hands pressed to the earth and eyes wide with wanting. At the end of the day, Sarai gave her an apple to feed the horse, swaying with laughter when Amaya started at the forceful crunch and dropped the fruit. She picked it right up again though, and grinned as the horse ate the whole thing from her flexed palm.

“Do horses talk?” Amaya asked Sarai later. 

“No,” Sarai signed back. “But they make a sound. N-E-I-G-H!” 

Amaya giggled, repeating the spelling with her own small fingers.

“And they talk with their bodies and their eyes,” Sarai added. “Just like you.”

***

Well, that settled it. Amaya was going to talk to a horse.

It wasn’t an easy proposition. She still wasn’t allowed anywhere near the paddock without Sarai carefully making sure that she was on the distant, horse-free side of the fence. And all the horses her family owned seemed to be observing the same edict -- they all shook their great heads at her, even when she snuck out a carrot or an apple.

_Everyone_ listened to her mother.

So when a new filly arrived in the paddock late one afternoon -- a spring investment, her mother said, whatever that meant -- Amaya knew she had to seize her chance. 

She hardly slept that night, waiting frozen in bed for the first wink of the sky lightening from black to blue. Thanks to late-night tart forrays with Sarai, stealth was a concept that Amaya already understood, even without the consequences of allegedly noisy floorboards and doors. She tiptoed out of her room, shivering in her white nightdress, donned her boots in the chilly stone courtyard, and headed straight for the horses.

The new filly was a dapple gray, much darker around her nose and socks. She hung her head over the side of the paddock, as though she was tired of sleep (or her new neighbors) already. In fact, Amaya noticed, the other horses had given the newcomer a wide berth. Perhaps she wasn’t the chatty type.

Amaya crept close to the filly. Now that the moment was here, anxiety and defiance rolled through her in alternating surges. The horse was so tall, but why shouldn’t she want to make friends, even if this new friend was so far from the ground…

The filly cut her eyes at Amaya. Midnight black and shining with what Amaya knew instantly was a challenge.

Amaya accepted. 

She tapped her chest and spelled “A-M-A-Y-A.” 

The filly looked… skeptical. Amaya offered a carrot.

The horse tilted her head, leaning down to get closer to the tiny girl. Her gaze didn’t break, even as she flared her lips around the carrot and returned to lick the small hand clean.

“Horse,” Amaya signed. Little fingers brushed the warm, enormous tongue.

The filly’s head lowered, then swung over the fence; hot breath curled at her shoulder, and Amaya rubbed the long, warm nose with her left hand. It rose to rest on the top of her head, and then the horse huffed with such force that Amaya felt it in her knees, saw the words in her eyes --

_“You’ll do.”_

* * *

The next sign is more complicated, but more graceful -- a sweeping right-left-right that had changed her life. Janai quirks an eyebrow and motions to Amaya’s cache of weapons, lying by her armor.

“Sword,” she says. 

* * *

_There are several variations on the sign for sword. In one version, the right forefinger is placed in a hook near the left and then swung in a J shape up and to the right. The right hand sweeps across to the left shoulder, and then down and to the right, suggesting the motion of a sword drawn from its sheath and brandished in the air. -- based on handspeak.com_

The sword too, it seemed, had chosen Amaya.

Sarai was ten and learning how to fight. Therefore Amaya, at seven -- more than old enough to learn the arts of war, she still maintained -- would also learn to fight. 

It was not a protracted negotiation. Amaya’s mother knew exactly what her youngest had in mind as she lingered around the courtyard where Sarai had lessons, eyes skipping straight from training staves and wooden blades to the metal glinting in neat rows along the wall.

“We can let her learn, or wait for her to steal the sharpest thing she can find and accidentally gut the cook.” Amaya peeked around the corner, watching her mother’s lips carefully as she informed her father. “Your choice.”

She couldn’t see his face, but the smile her mother gave all the response Amaya needed.

The next morning, Amaya came downstairs with her hair hacked short, in a ragged imitation of the soldiers she saw sparring in the courtyard. 

Her mother’s jaw dropped and Sarai’s eyes bugged out from her face. A long moment of apparent calculation, passed; her mother rubbed her eyes and signed, “I should have guessed. Yes Amaya, you are starting lessons with Sarai today.”

Training weapons ONLY, sweet,” she continued, Amaya raced around the table to smother her mother in a hug. “Nothing sharp! And you will tell me where you found the scissors.”

It hardly mattered; every new dream felt like destiny to a seven-year-old, but this was different -- this was where she was _meant_ to be.

Amaya’s glee was such that she hardly remembered the first lesson. There were solid trousers and a simple rough shirt, good for sweating; there was the instructor, Lady Rie in her high-collared shirt, fluid skirt, a doublet patterned in bright blue birds; there was the stick, and the feeling of something grown-up and powerful and new.

It was for this reason that it took Amaya a few days to understand a disappointing reality: Learning to fight was boring.

Every lesson seemed to be the same, at least for her. She would stand next to Sarai and repeat the same motions over and over again. “Strike! Parry! At ease!” their teacher would boom, signing hastily along -- not that it was necessary. The pattern never changed. Sarai would soon move on to more advanced forms, twirling the staff and shifting her feet in a clumsy, beautiful dance. But Amaya stood in place, frustrated sweat beading beneath the rough shirt, the wooden rod feeling like a barrier instead of a conduit to her future.

Sarai was not impressed. 

“Combat isn’t easy,” she responded one night when Amaya complained, spelling out the unfamiliar words. “Lady Rie says you must master the basics first, before you can even think of fighting.”

“Too late,” Amaya signed back. “I think of fighting Lady Rie all the time already.”

A pillow landed on her face, and it turned out that clearly Sarai made exceptions for combat conducted with fluffy bedclothes.

But even as Amaya slowly -- so, _so_ slowly -- began to advance through her forms, the staff never felt like it belonged in her hands. Sarai was a natural, shedding her awkwardness and embracing the dance like it belonged to her. Soon, she was wielding a weighted staff, and Lady Rie began to talk about obtaining measurements for a proper training spear.

Amaya stepped forward, thrusting; edged back in a parry; swiveled on one foot and stumbled out of form again.

With a hoarse yell that rang through her ribs, Amaya swung her staff at the flagged stone. The light wood splintered and Amaya seized the dangling remnant, yanking it free, slashing a nearby pillar. The left side of her body counterweighed her right; somehow each singular swing felt easier, more true than the months of double-handed work that came before.

Something touched Amaya’s shoulder and she whirled, swinging the broken staff with all her strength -- right into Lady Rie’s nose.

***

Amaya had fled the scene of the crime, of course, but her escape had been short-lived. Sarai always seemed to know where to find her, and exactly how to incapacitate her younger sister with well-placed tickles. 

Her mother ushered Amaya into the parlor where Lady Rie sat, still clutching a stained handkerchief to her face. There was blood down the front of her doublet, turning blue birds a brownish purple. Guilt twisted Amaya’s stomach.

Her mother gathered her up like she was still little and sat her in an armchair, joining Lady Rie on the sofa.

With ice in her fingers, Amaya started to sign at her mother, but she shook her head. “Lady Rie has something to say to you, Amaya,” she signed. “And you are going to listen.”

Lady Rie said something behind her handkerchief. Amaya’s mother nodded and began to sign.

“I want to apologize, Amaya,” her mother relayed -- and then smiled, seeing her daughter start with surprise. 

“Yes, really!” Lady Rie continued. “Your sister is a natural with the spear, and I never thought to start your training differently. But I have a sister too, and I should have known better than to think you were the same.”

Lady Rie left the couch and knelt by Amaya. Her nose was a crusting mess, but her eyes were lively above the field of bruises.

“You’re a strong young woman, and I’d hate to lose you as a student,” she said. “If you agree, we’ll start you on the sword as soon as possible.”

Amaya’s mother’s hands paused for a moment, then whipped through the air as though brandishing a blade. Amaya repeated the movement cautiously, then nodded.

Lady Rie smiled, only wincing a bit. “It won’t be easy! And you can expect plenty more drills ahead.” She rose, ruffling Amaya’s hair. “But I promise, these hands will speak with more than just words soon.”

Amaya’s mother and Lady Rie left the parlor. Amaya flopped onto her back, repeating the new sign, relishing the graceful swish of her hand through the air, a new reality full of possibilities. Right, left, right… right, left, right…

* * *

Amaya smiles, chuckling. This elf is a quick learner. And strong. And beautiful. And... close. She smells like clean smoke.

The next sign comes before Amaya can stop herself. She puckers the fingers of each hand and taps the tips together. Once. Twice... 

* * *

_Many variations on [the sign for kiss]… In the main version of this sign you form each hand into flattened "O" handshapes and then you bring the fingertips together in front of you while puckering up your lips (as if kissing someone). - lifeprint.com/ASL101_

Amaya chooses kisses. She has a weakness for them.

At eleven, she chose to kiss a boy from the next village with olive skin and bright green eyes, quick pecks on hand and cheek. At thirteen, a red-haired girl, daughter of one of her father’s friends, lips this time. Once Gren, after a long evening of peanuts and pepper beer, after which they’d both laughed until they couldn’t stand.

On it went, each adventure disclosed excitedly to Sarai over sweets that eventually became cherry wine. Secrets of the body cast into the air, finding purchase with the only other person who would understand them.

When Sarai died, Amaya stopped drinking. For a while too, she stopped kissing; the taste had soured in her mouth.

* * *

The glow returns to the elf’s face. Janai ducks her head. She says nothing, and she doesn’t repeat the sign.

For a moment, Amaya is stricken, dismayed that she has given the wrong word, performed the wrong signal in their dance; Janai too, has only just lost her sister... 

But the elf just leans forward, gently pressing her lips to Amaya’s and igniting the world.

  
  



End file.
